


Cheap Tricks

by vange



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse, The Flash (Comic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vange/pseuds/vange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they were well adjusted people, they wouldn't be villains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheap Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Teckoness on livejournal for beta, and to Bec1024 for general encouragement.

The first time he slices off a man's ear with a boomerang, he knows he's in love. It's just a crappy synthetic wood one- the balance is shit and it's as likely to just fall as fly true. But somehow, in his hands it becomes something more. And with a flick of his wrist he has the greatest rush of his life as the nosy tabloid reporter screams, clutching a bloody mess of hair and flesh.

No more reporters come after that, but his dad does, which just seems like another step on the path that had always been waiting for him. He just never noticed it before.

His dad gives him toys. Fabulous wonderful toys and beams at him and it's a blissful thrill filled day and Owen finally realizes he's going to get beyond his crappy lower middle class just scrapping through til the next pay check existence. He's never been happier in his life.

Then his dad dies. And the Rogues show up.

\---

It's cold and dark in the dirty warehouse, but judging by the expensive digital entertainment monstrosity and the fact the dark haired man sitting over there on the crate could control the fucking weather, Owen figures the general gloom had to be by choice. He wraps his jacket a little more firmly around himself and settles on top of his designated seat, a box of black market DVD players, and begins toying with a spare boomerang.

"Beer?" Cold thrusts the can out at him and Owen takes it automatically, never registering the question. Which probably doesn't matter to Cold anyway, who was now settling on his crate of stolen goods and regarding Owen with a flat, calculating stare. Owen tried not to twitch too much, mind reeling back to his earliest memories- of the orphanage and lining up for the prospective parents. Most adopters wanted babies, but a few would come in and pluck a lucky older child out of the line up and save him or her from the endless cycle of foster homes and all that. Everyone knew what foster homes meant: that you were never going to be good enough for a real damn family, so when adopters came along you sat still and smiled big and wiped the dirt off your face.

It's that ordeal all over again, only this time failing probably meant they'd take away his boomerangs, the ones Dad gave him with the explosives, and sonic blasts, and the very nice one with the razors all along the edge that glinted so nicely and he can't help running his fingers over and over the metal, letting his nails get scraped lightly by the sharpness. Losing that one would suck. And they'd probably kill or at least maim him for good measure afterwards. Which would just be icing on the sucking cake.

"You gonna drink that beer, or just finger your little toy all night?" Cold asks. There's a small snicker from the dark haired man, (Weather Wizard, his brain supplies, whose gaze now seems to be a sharp heat on his back, to balance out the cold dread Cold's eyes has settling in his stomach. Owen slumps on his crate and takes a good long swig of his beer, hoping the bitterness will distract him from their stares. It isn't working.

"Erm, so you, knew my dad?" Owen tries, desperate to change the subject to anything but him.

"Yeah." Cold is not being generous tonight. Owen silently curses.

"They... his body..." he tries.

"We know kid," Cold snaps. Owen can't help his flinch. "We'll get it back. Man deserves some respect in death. Damn bastards who don't understand that are going to pay." Suddenly Cold surges to his feet and presses a hand to Owen's shoulder. Even through the glove and Owen's jacket it sends shivers down his spine. "Are you with us kid?"

The weight of all their eyes settles on him. He takes a deep breath before letting out a surprisingly steady, "Yes."

Cold smiles. Really smiles, dammit, and somehow it's the most unsettling thing all evening. "Good. Come on, I'll show you some of Digger's old gear he left."

\----

He puts on the costume before the funeral. Cold's steady stare is with him as he tucks the scarf around his neck.

"You sure you want to do this kid?" He asks. It's not a real question.

"How can I not?" It's not a question either, but they're both doing such a good job pretending.

Cold's mouth rises a little on one side.

"That's the whole point of a boomerang, right?" Owen says, running his hand over one of the showy, sleek bladed ones and flicks it up to regard it carefully. "You throw it away..." He throws, letting the crack of his wrist just past the speed of sound send it in a tight flight around the room so he can snatch it again. "...it comes right back. Ever seen one of these thrown at superspeed?"

Cold's stare is like touching steel in winter, a freezing burn that creeps across his skin. Owen shivers, and tries to ignore heat coloring his cheeks.

\---

There's a keg at the funeral, but no body, which makes a weird amount of sense considering the guest list. The Trickster kid settles near it, chatting with some guy with a spade carved into his face. The cemetery is overrun with color, and he couldn't help but wonder who had handled the arrangements. Mostly, Owen really wants to know why Mirror Master (McCulloch his brain provides, but somehow the name doesn't fit) let in the weirdoes calling themselves the Rainbow Raiders who are trying to pick a fight with the floating computer head.

His dad's life seems a lot weirder and sickenly familiar at the same time. It's the same old pathetic bitching about shit, only with more spandex and knives.

He can't stand any of them. Except maybe Cold, whose been silently appreciative of his boomerang tricks and had let his freezing bare hand card through Owen's hair last night when he thought the kid was asleep. It was comforting- in a creepy psycho way.

Things after the eulogy are a blur. Cold reaches around to press the first explosive toy into his hand and whispers in his ear, "Make your dad proud." The years of being quiet and passed over and obeying every little goddamned rule disappear with the first thrilling rush of adrenaline that comes with the knowledge that for once he's in control. Even though in the back of his mind he knows he not, can't think beyond the physical sensation: the feel of his wrist crackling through the air and the pound of anger behind it all. Anger at the whole world and his crappy life and even his dad for being a damn idiot and getting killed like that before even bothering to tell him who his mother is. He's vaguely aware that the others behind him, a whole score of hardened criminals whose laughter filters through the screams of civilians, but none of it really matters.

Cold has Weather Wizard pull him back at the end, a rush of icy wind knocking him out of the hot, lusty haze he's in, crouching on a roof with his arm back and another boomerang in his hand. He grips it so hard in shock he cuts his palm and fingers into a bloody mess, and the pain's a welcome distraction from how Cold looks proud of him.

"You're a natural," Cold says, trailing behind Owen as Mirror Master takes them back to the warehouse. The hard feeling of his stare is back, but somehow the cold shivers it sends down his spine just makes the throbbing hot thrill of destruction settle down between his legs.

"I know," Owen says, and somehow Cold's stare wraps around his throat and to steal his air.

Trickster cuts in, of course. Goddamn brat. But Mirror Master and Mardon (he catches Owen after knocking him down and tells him he's doing good, and somehow in that second his hollow glowing eyes became human) are smirking knowingly. Owen resists the urge to flip them off. They'd just take it as an invitation anyway.

Cold pats him on the back and says he's going to be one of them. A Rogue. One of the family. What he's always wanted.

Hot damn.

\---

Later he drinks their beer and lounges around as they try to teach him poker. He's played before, but just really sucks at it. McCulloch (he can be McCulloch when he's not fiddling with pieces of glass and rubbing his nose and staring around with bloodshot eyes) thinks it's hilarious, and is sure to shove some more beer down his throat so he'll lose even faster.

That night he lays on a lumpy mattress tucked in the back of the warehouse- crates around it give a cozy illusion of privacy. It doesn't seem so cold anymore and as he lays there dazed he thinks of Cold's hand on his shoulder, his controlled voice calling him son and telling him, "Anything you need." And how his eyes were slits behind his glasses and kept staring at him hungrily and they aren't cold at all when you saw them up close.

Owen remembers how Cold stared as he padded off to his mattress, but he stayed at the table, gulping down another beer, even though Mardon and McCullough had switched to hard liquor.

He waits for it, shrugging off his jacket and boots to just lay in a thin t-shirt and his worn jeans. The anticipation is almost as good as the shivers he knows will run down his spine and have him shaking and gasping as soon as Cold touches him. He dozes, and squirms and waits.

\---

Around three am he figures Cold's not coming, and he's not going to fall asleep, so he kicks of the covers and wanders barefoot back to the main section of the warehouse, and only finds Mardon lounging on the broken leather sofa (Trickster had laughed and told him to ask Mardon and Cold about how precisely they broke it, but Cold had beat Trickster upside the head and Owen disliked concussions so the subject was dropped). There's no lights on in the room, so the sparkling bits of lightning that Mardon's flicking back and forth in his hands and sending wriggling up and down his body seem to make him a pulsing glowing creature.

Owen might be a little drunk, and horny as fuck, sure, but that doesn't mean that settling over the back of the couch to steal Mardon's vodka and feeling the buzzing static on the bare skin of his arms is a bad idea. Especially judging by how Mardon smirks up at him and sends a new bolt rushing towards him, making the skin on his arms bunch up and prickle. It crawls up, up to the back of his neck where it settles to a slow, static buzzing that sends little shocks of pain underneath the pleasurable feeling of every hair trying to escape his skin. Owen is aware he's gasping, and maybe even moaning a little. He's definitely leaning closer to Mardon, whose hands are now gripping his arms, pulling him over onto the couch and sending more of the pulsing bolts through him, making him jerk and whimper and get so hard he could break something.

Owen lands limply with a grunt right over Mardon, who smirks even more, and somehow Owen's brain finally gets around to noting that he isn't in uniform, but still wearing that damn mask. That makes it even better, or at least kinkier. Mardon grabs his hips and grinds them together in a tight circle; Owen swears and thrusts forward before jerking back at the first touch of lightning up his spine. He's only aware of his screaming when Mardon thrusts a hand in his mouth and so he bites down. The sparkling buzz just rattles through his skull and he comes with bright explosions behind his eyelids. Mardon strokes one hand down his shuddering back, not really helping to sooth his gasps at all.

"Neat trick," Owen whispers, throat dry and tight. He flashes his best smile.

"Sure is, kid. You have any tricks?" He grabs Owen's shirt and pulls him in close to whisper, the lightning in his eyes making Owen's face buzz and tingle. "I'd love to see them. I'm sure they're..." he glances down to where Owen's jeans are staining and Mardon's still hard, "...impressive."

Blowing him is a thrill and his strangled curses filter through the have of ozone and buzzing heat of Mardon's hand in his hair. Afterwards, he feels raw and sore and too exhausted to bother to move from his spot curled over Mardon's legs.

"You enjoying the show?" Mardon's voice jerks him out of his doze.

"The kid's a pretty one, alright," McCulloch says, and Owen finally notices the shadow of his face in the shiny surface of the TV screen. Somehow, he can't bring himself to care enough to do more than just gesture obscenely. McCulloch laughs, and Mardon's fingers stray through his hair a bit more.

\---

Owen was seven when his adopted father died, young enough to not remember him but old enough for the trauma to stick. After that, his mom had pretty much lost all interest in raising him. She kept him fed and clothed and going to school, but she seemed to just be doing it so he wouldn't bother her anymore.

He spent most of his time out in the neighborhood. Wandering around and starting trouble with the older kids down the street. He started hanging around the movie theater long before he was old enough to work there, hoping to bum a smoke off the guys taking breaks or sneak in to see the last half of an R rated film on a good day. It was mostly out of nothing better to do that he started doing favors for the few jocks and college kids that hung around.

The thrill of being down on his knees and feeling the broken bottles and God knows what else ripping tiny holes in his jeans drove everything else out of his head. The world narrowed down to the thick male smell and the feel of the dick in his mouth and the hands on his head, the little gasps and swears in the air. He didn't have to think when he was there.

He wasn't stupid or anything, he knew it was risky as hell and didn't do it that often. Maybe a night or so a week, always on school nights because there were less drunks and cops then. He would sneak out his bedroom window, mostly because he wanted to pretend that his mom would disapprove. She probably wouldn't notice if he walked out the front door, or even brought a score of guys back with him every night, what with all the gin she drank with dinner she was usually out like a light by nine anyway.

The last time in the back lot was a week before the reporters started showing up, on break with one of his coworkers. His name really was John, ironically, but he was clean and shared the vodka out of his flask afterwards so Owen didn't make any obnoxious jokes. John was twenty five and had a picture of his daughter in his wallet, who he had fathered back in high school with some girl named Tiffany or Brittany or something cute like that, who had long ago run off to Hollywood to make her fortune but had just ended up a stripper, most likely. It was a cute picture and Owen had stolen it out of his wallet and ripped it to shreds the day the first article came out.

\---

Cold doesn't meet Owen's eyes in the morning as he explains the plan for breaking into the lab where they're holding his dad's body. Owen doesn't mind too much, he's busy trying to work the kinks out of his neck from where he'd fallen asleep half wrapped around Mardon.

"Kid's a cuddler I see," McCulloch had said amused while kicking them out of his bed.

The plan called for a full frontal assault at nightfall ("Heh. Full frontal," Trickster says. Cold smacks him.) so most of the day was supposed to be spent practicing working as a unit. This fell out around eleven thirty, when Mardon finds the box of old costume wigs and decides that Owen should be sent to pick up lunch.

"This thing is probably infested, you know," Owen complains.

"Yes, yes we know, that's how hepatitis is spread, try to bring the food back warm, will ya?" McCulloch replies before pushing him through a mirror and out into an alley.

The wig doesn't seem nearly as obnoxious as the accent of the Chinese lady behind the counter who can't seem to grasp that he wants some goddamn eggrolls not fried rice, and no he isn't paying for both, and while waiting for the food he realizes he's in a crappy Chinese take out place just like the one right down the street from his (old) house and only the color of the tile on the floor is different. Somehow, movies had always led him to believe life as a supervillain was more glamorous, and included dangers not involving lice infested wigs, but movies had lied to him before.

Mardon bitches about the fact they gave him sweet and sour pork instead of chicken, but Cold just tells him to stop being such a Jew and he eats it all in any case. It's almost what Owen imagined having a family would be like.

\---

Traveling by mirror is a weird sensation, because it's not all that different from stepping through a normal door, until the sudden shocking change in temperature: moving from the dark, cold warehouse into an office building crackling with Mardon's lightning strikes. Owen's mind keeps filing away odd facts. The smell of burnt human flesh isn't that different from any other kind of burnt meat. Blood and linoleum squeak under boots. A man's arm encased in ice sounds like glass when it shatters.

The office is well lit with the kind of florescent lighting that drains all the color out of people's skin and make them look dead. Still, the flash of Mardon's lightning and Trickster's bombs are startling and Owen's eyes water against it. Cold is at his side muttering about wasting all that time with plans when they just end up smashing everything in there way every time, but he's starting to suspect there's a required amount of grumbling and bitching that is required within the group at any given time. If they were happy campers, they wouldn't be villains.

The lab itself is well guarded, but not well guarded enough, and the thickest steal doors are laughable when faced with McCulloch. Owen is shocked that the rage that had begun building in his stomach the moment he heard his dad's message now seemed to be boiling up into his head and down his arms, making them blur through the air tossing boomerangs without conscious thought on his part. The antiseptic smell of the lab is quickly choked out by smoke and blood, and Cold's eyes are now following his every move in an appreciative manner.

"It's not about blood," Cold tells him. "It's about spilling it together." His smile is full of knife-sharp ice.

The first time he kills a man is sort of a let down. He always expected it to be harder, but bone and muscle gives way like anything else under a blade. He's starting to associate the smell of blood with the thrill of Cold's stare and it's becoming worrying. But not as worrying as how hard he gets the first time Cold calls him Captain Boomerang.

\---

The mission is a failure, his dad's body is missing, and he's pinned up against a dirty alley wall next to the warehouse. Owen's really not fighting it at all. Cold rips away his scarf first thing, and has been doing his best to suck the darkest hickey ever known onto his neck, while Owen does his best to work his legs up around Cold's hips to feel his hard muscles hidden beneath that ridiculous Eskimo jacket.

"Fuck kid," Cold whispers, for once not in complete control of his voice. "Jesus, fuck. You back there...spilling blood...just like..." He cuts himself off by biting down hard just below Owen's left ear, making Owen gasp and wrench away from the wall. His spine arches to start humping against Cold's crotch, but Cold's hands shoot down immediately, hitching Owen's legs over his waist and pressing his hips firmly against the wall. Pinning him so he had to wait for Cold to decide what he can or can't have. Owen struggles beneath the pin, just for the feel of it, working his arms into Cold's jacket to push up his shirt and work his hands over the chilled, hard skin of Cold's chest. One hand strays up further, to twist Cold's nipple, and that makes the man groan and thump against Owen's body again. Cold smirks as he presses down, surrounding Owen and controlling him completely. Owen has to use his legs to pull him in even tighter to scratch and rub for what little heat there is.

Trickster's up on the roof, pelting rats and pigeons with his little explosive toys and his laughter filters through the haze, along with the murmurs of Mardon and McCulloch's conversation just inside the door. He realizes they've got to be watching on one of McCulloch's freaky little mirrors just as Cold unzips Owen's jeans and reaches in to get a firm grip on his dick, his other hand sneaking around the back to grasp Owen's ass.

"Such a pretty boy," Cold whispers, jacking him slowly and letting him squirm against the wall and whine at the tight grip of Cold's teeth in his shoulder. The smell of the blood still lingers on him, and the thick iron taste of it fills the few gasps of air he manages. He bites down hard on his lower lip to choke back the screams when Cold pushes one long, thick finger into him. The raw feel of it rips through his entire body and his dick leaks in Cold's hand. "That's it," Cold hisses and his cold breathe stings the wet, raw skin he had been chewing, "Get nice and wet for me."

Cold slipped a second finger in and Owens feet begin hammering at Cold's back as he thrashes against the wall, moaning. A few more jerks and he comes in Cold's freezing bare hand and hears, "Captain Boomerang- that's you kid."

"Oh Jesus, Cold. Oh fuck," Owen whispers and the aftershocks hit him as he struggles get his feet back under him.

Cold settles back, staring down at Owen's shuddering frame, and decides to heave him up and into the warehouse. Owen's messy jeans tangle and trip him while they stumble past Mardon and McCulloch (who whistles appreciatively and gets told to fuck off by Cold) and finally Cold throws him down on the mattress in the back room which Cold marked off for himself. Owen struggles out of his jacket, letting it drop noisily to the ground before yanking at the laces of his boots. Finally sprawling half-naked bed, he stares up at Cold, who's lost those ridiculous glasses. He can see Cold's face bare for the first time, it's somehow more overwhelming than the fact he's holding himself over Owen, bare inches between them, in only his boxers which hide nothing.

"Len," Cold whispers, "You can call me Len." And kisses Owen hard, pinning him to the bed with the force of it, all sharp teeth and fists and pure cold weight.

"Oh Jesus, Len," Owen hisses, trying to find something to say. What comes out is, "Oh, fuck me. Come on." Len freezes, then leans back to stare eye to eye. Its unsettling to realize this is the first time he's actually returned that damn stare. But then it's gone and Len's fumbling with his jeans and sucking another harsh bite right over his hip bone (the one on his neck is bleeding, he can feel the hot trickle of his own blood and somehow that just makes it better).

The first hard thrust makes him jerk and scream again, and his throat's feeling as raw inside as out. Len just whispers, "Easy kid, easy now," and runs a soothing hand down his side. His hands are so cold they burn, or maybe Owen's just too warm, he can't tell anymore and Len still has a hand in his hair, not letting him turn his face into the pillows and bite. All the sounds just fall out of his mouth, all the desperate embarrassing whimpers and pleas and moans.

"God kid, you always like this?" And Owen jerks at that and shakes his head, trying to find the way to choke out that he's never done this before, he wasn't that big a back alley slut, but Len seems to catch on anyway. "Oh fuck, kid... you... fuck." His thrusts just get harder, he wraps the hand not tangled in Owen's hair around the kid's leaking dick and that's all it takes.

Owen drifts in a post orgasm haze, humming to himself as Len lets out another string of curses and comes, collapsing onto the bed in a jumbled, sticky heap. Len's breath is warm against Owen's neck, and he feels finally at home.

\---

Of course, Mardon kicks in the door five minutes later, yelling about someone attacking one of a auxiliary storage warehouses. Owen throws an empty beer can off the ground at his head at mach two, but Mardon just blasts it out of the way, smirking. "Looking good. If we had time I'd grab my camera kid."

"Shut up Mardon," Len snaps, rolling off the bed and cleaning himself up. "Come on kid, we have some asses to kick."

"You're an expert on the treatment of asses I see..." This time, Owen throws the battered alarm clock, and Mardon retreats out the door.

"Bitchy and unnecessarily violent," Len says cheerfully. "You're perfect. Get dressed. We have shit to blow up."

Turns out its the old Trickster and his team trying to ambush them, and that suits Owen just fine, its nice to hit someone who hits back finally. Len's busy, but every few minutes Owen can feel his stare on the side of his neck, where under his scarf the bite mark is red and swollen. He throws a little harder whenever he feels it, and whenever he hears someone scream as a boomerang connects it's like falling in love all over again.


End file.
